Disclaimer: The Hunger Games still isn't mine.

Note: Just a couple quick things.

First, if you have preferences about alliances, please try to let me know soon. (If not, I'll just go with whatever I think works best.)

Second, a reminder to vote in the favorite tributes poll on my profile if you haven't yet.

Third, a quick shout-out to some SYOTs in need of tributes. etherealepiphany is working on an SYOT of the First Games. Wonder Tribute is working on a self-described "sillier" "randomly generated" SYOT. And asa-hanada is working on an AU one where citizens are free to move from district to district, which opens up some pretty interesting possibilities for backstories. Check them out and send some tributes their way!

Lastly, just wanted to mention that this is the first of three train ride chapters. If your tribute doesn't get a POV here (or in the other two) it's not because I didn't like them as much. Everyone will get a POV during training, and I'll try to make sure everyone gets a chance to shine before tribute inevitably start dying off in the bloodbath. These are simply the tributes whose POVs I felt worked best for these particular chapters.

Train Rides
Horrible Imaginings

Genevieve Odele, 17
District One

She'd never imagined that she would be here.

Genevieve couldn't help a smile as she settled down onto the couch beside Jasper. Her mentor. Jasper Floren, District One's youngest Victor. Jade and Stellar were already seated on the next couch over. Consus had taken a seat beside Stellar, while Mae sat cross-legged on the floor in front of them. On the couch beside them, Felix and Justus were already watching the screen, even though their district's reaping was the one playing. Between the eight of them, they almost looked like…

What? A family? As strange as it seemed, there was a certain family-like quality to the gathering. The eight of them had one goal, after all: bring home another Victor for District One. The only thing that separated them was who they wanted to bring home.

District One's reaping ended with the roaring cheer of the crowd. Then it was on to District Two. Genevieve leaned forward a little. District Two was usually a Career district, of course, but so was One. How many of their tributes had turned out to be Careers?

First came a fourteen-year-old boy – a bit young, but strong-looking for his age, and smiling a little as he took the stage. Then a nervous-looking eighteen-year-old, followed by a twelve-year-old with a smirk on her face. Then two more eighteen-year-olds. The first took a while to make her way to the stage, but that was better than the second, who broke down crying until Vester, of all people, had to retrieve him from the crowd.

"I'll bet the younger girl has some training," Jade reasoned. "Maybe the younger boy, too. We might have a Career pack yet."

Genevieve turned her attention back to the screen. A Career pack. They were already thinking about who to allow into the Career pack. But did that include her? She could ask Jasper later, of course, but she had a feeling she already knew the answer. She wasn't a Career. If any of the others had ever seen her standing around the training academy – standing, but never training – then they would know better than to let her into the Career pack.

District Three was up next, but their tributes didn't look particularly promising. The girl was doing at least a passable job of looking unconcerned until she tripped over the stairs on her way up. But that mishap was quickly overshadowed by the other tribute, a younger boy who had a panic attack and had to be dragged to the stage, where Miriam had to help him up. Genevieve couldn't help a scoff. He was as good as dead already. The girl might last a little longer, but clumsiness in the arena could be as deadly as fear. How many tributes had died because of a simple mishap, a slip-up or a wrong step somewhere? If she couldn't even focus on where she was stepping on the way to the stage, how would she be able to focus in the arena?

District Four's tributes looked a bit more promising, even without volunteers. Not all of their tributes in recent years had been volunteers, anyway. Training in District Four had taken a hit since the fiasco during the 41st Games, and having to send extra tributes had only added to the likelihood of some of the spots being filled by non-Careers.

The first boy, however, looked pretty strong. Maybe he'd even been training. He was eighteen, well-built, and at least managed to smile as he took the stage. Then came two fifteen-year-old girls, the first one screaming and begging. The second was a bit more composed but way too skinny to be a Career. Last came another eighteen-year-old boy who started laughing immediately after his name was called, then yelled at the Peacekeepers before heading to the stage, his hands stuffed in his pockets.

"He'll be one to watch out for," Stellar observed as the tape moved on. "And the first boy, maybe. Let's see about District Five."

Genevieve nodded. District Five had started training Careers later than One, Two, and Four, but they'd quickly earned their place and had boasted three wins in the eleven years since District One's last victory. Maybe they were a bit unconventional, but they certainly weren't to be underestimated.

The first girl certainly seemed like Career material, grinning proudly as she took the stage, the crowd cheering her on. She was seventeen – certainly old enough to have quite a bit of training. More than the younger Careers they'd seen already. Next came an eighteen-year-old boy who didn't look quite as confident, but once he reached the stage, Oliver gave him a thumbs-up, and the boy broke into a grin and started waving at the crowd.

The next two boys, however, certainly weren't as promising. The twelve-year-old was bawling as he took the stage, and the sixteen-year-old immediately declared himself a 'dead man walking.'

"Well, the first two weren't bad," Genevieve offered optimistically.

Justus chuckled a little. "I guess that does it for the potential Career pack."

Jade shook his head. "Not necessarily. If the pickings are slim this year as far as actual Careers, you might want to consider tributes from other districts. That's what I did during my Games."

"Forty years ago," Justus pointed out.

"Forty-three," Mae corrected.

Justus smirked. "Fair enough. The point was, I think we have enough options from within Career districts. But if you really think we should look elsewhere…"

"I just think we should consider the possibility," Jade agreed as the tape moved on to District Six. The first girl ended up arguing with a girl who was apparently her twin … and who would probably have been a better choice, from the look of her. The second girl was eighteen and, strangely enough, smiling. Odd for an outer-district tribute, but that didn't automatically mean she was a threat – just that she was good at playing the part.

District Seven's tributes were both older – an eighteen-year-old boy and seventeen-year-old girl – and both managed to hold it together as long as the cameras were on. After that, the districts quickly went downhill. One of District Eight's tributes fainted after a man who was old enough to be her grandfather tried to fight the Peacekeepers off her.

District Nine was looking a bit more promising until the last tribute, a thirteen-year-old boy who couldn't even find his way to the stage on his own. Both of District Ten's boys were crying. District Eleven's tributes, at least, managed to make it to the stage without a fuss – aside from the escort butchering the name of one of the boys. The boy from Twelve was only fourteen, and the girl was crying all the way to the stage, begging her father to intervene and save her. Pathetic.

Almost immediately after the tape clicked off, Consus stood up and headed for the other room. Stellar followed, silently acknowledging that he wasn't going to take part in the discussion about who should be allowed in the pack. Not that any of them had expected otherwise. He clearly wasn't Career material.

Genevieve started to stand up, glancing over at Jasper. "Maybe we should…"

Justus shook his head. "No. You can stay." Mae opened her mouth to object, but Justus cut her off. "We'll need numbers. Maybe you don't have any training, but I've seen you around the academy with your friends. Watching. Learning. I bet there's not a tribute out there who knows more about previous Games, and the audience will love you. So what do you say?"

Genevieve turned to Jasper, who shrugged. "It's up to you."

Up to her. Justus was offering to let her join the pack. But was he offering because he really thought she would be useful, or because they needed extra bodies? Someone who would make an easier target for the other tributes to pick off first?

She wanted time. Time to decide. But the tone in Justus' voice was enough to tell her that he expected a decision now. If she said no, it would be too late to change her mind later. And if she said yes, changing her mind later would brand her as a traitor to the pack. Whatever choice she made now could decide how the Games went. Genevieve hesitated a moment, but then sat back down.

"So who else is joining us?"

Merrik Haims, 15
District Three

He'd never imagined this would happen to him.

Merrik wrapped his arms around his knees as he sat in his room, rocking back and forth a little on the bed. He was supposed to join the others for dinner soon. But he couldn't stop shaking. Couldn't stop crying. Maybe that was normal, but Dinah had certainly seemed more composed. As if she wasn't scared. As if she wouldn't let herself be scared.

He wished he could do that.

Finally, he stood up. Miriam had suggested that they change before dinner, but he hadn't even been able to calm down long enough to do that. His clothes … maybe they weren't much, but they were a little reminder of District Three. A little reminder of home. Once he put on something else – something from the Capitol – that would just make it more real.

And he didn't want it to be more real. He wanted to believe that he was imagining everything. That he would wake up any moment now, and it would all be a dream. Even watching the rest of the reapings earlier hadn't been enough to shake the thought from his mind. All those kids – they didn't quite seem real yet. They were just faces on a screen.

Maybe they were thinking the same thing about him. Or maybe not. Maybe he was the odd one out. But was that good or bad? Part of him wanted to believe that it was good that he was afraid. That he would have to be crazy not to be scared. But year after year, tributes had been able to put aside their fear and get on with what had to be done. Get on with fighting, with killing, with winning the Games. Would he ever be able to focus enough to do that?

Not now. He didn't need to fight now. Didn't need to kill anyone now. Right now, he just needed to change into something else for dinner. Slowly, he slipped off his shirt and chose another one from the closet. A nice, soft, blue-grey shirt. It almost felt good. Probably would have felt good under any other circumstances.

Don't think about the circumstances. Slowly, still shaking, he chose a pair of black pants and a pair of tan slippers. Everything was so soft. So comfortable. As if everything in the room was here to distract him from what was about to happen. What he would be expected to do. What he would be expected to become.

Suddenly, there was a knock on his door. Miriam, probably. Wondering what was taking him so long. Merrik clenched his fists tightly. What was taking him so long? Why couldn't he just pull himself together?

"Hello?" came a voice from the other side. "Are you still in there?"

Merrik hesitated. He couldn't be sure, but the voice didn't sound like Miriam. "Avery?"

"Yes. Mind if I come in?"

"Okay," Merrik said quietly. When the door still didn't open, he tried again. "Okay. You can come in."

The door creaked open, and Avery stepped inside. "Just wanted to make sure you were still all right."

All right. Merrik nodded. "Sure. I'm all right."

"No, you're not," Avery shrugged. "There'd be something wrong with you if you were. You're a tribute now; none of us are ever all right again."

Merrik looked away. "You mean you were scared before…"

"Before my Games? Of course. And during them. And for a good long while afterwards. I probably don't have to tell you why."

She didn't. He'd only been six years old during Avery's Games, but that was old enough to remember. Her arena had been fashioned after Mount Olympus, but after the rebels were the only ones left, they had been dragged down to a recreation of the underworld, where the twelve of them had been tortured until…

Until one of them had caved and given in to the Capitol's demands. Avery had agreed to kill the others, and, in return, had been allowed to live. She had been frightened, and it had saved her life. So of course she didn't mind that he was frightened now. But fear didn't always turn out to play in a tribute's favor. Her Games had been the exception.

Hadn't they?

Maybe. Or maybe fear was normal. But normal or not, it certainly didn't feel good. And it didn't change what was happening. It just made it harder to deal with. "How do you handle it?" Merrik asked quietly.

Avery shrugged. "If you ever figure that out, be sure to let me know."

Great. So even the Victors didn't really know what they were doing, didn't really know how to deal with the fear that came with the Games. All they could do was hope their tributes would be able to get through it, just as they had. Avery put a hand on his shoulder. "Come on. The others are already waiting for us for dinner. Well, I don't know if they're actually waiting for us…"

He hoped not. It wouldn't be fair to ask the others to wait on his account. Still, the thought that they might be waiting for him to start was enough to prompt him to follow Avery out the door and into the next car where, sure enough, the others had started eating already. "Sorry we didn't wait," Percival called, "but we weren't sure how long you were going to be and … well, we were hungry."

Merrik nodded and took a seat between Avery and Miriam. He was hungry, too. Hungrier than he wanted to admit. He helped himself to some of the chicken, several vegetables, and a couple rolls before finally digging in. It was good. Even better than he'd expected, really. Everyone talked about how delicious Capitol food must be, and they weren't exaggerating. He just wished he hadn't had to become a tribute in order to get a taste.

"So what did you think of the other reapings?" Dinah asked, clearly trying to make conversation. "At least there weren't as many actual Careers as normal."

Her comment was met with silence for a moment before Percival leaned towards her a little. "Maybe we should save the talk about strategy for later, when we're alone…"

There it was. He hadn't exactly been expecting an alliance with his district partner, but the immediate rejection hurt more than he wanted to admit. But what had he been expecting? He'd completely broken down crying at the reaping had had taken almost an hour just to change his clothes and come to dinner. He was a mess. Of course she wouldn't want to form an alliance – or even discuss strategy while he was in the room.

Dinah shrugged. "It wasn't really strategy. I was just saying that there aren't as many Careers as normal. That's good, right? For all of us."

Percival glanced at Miriam, who shrugged helplessly, as if giving him permission to go ahead. "Good in some ways," Percival agreed. "But not in others. Careers, for all their danger, usually take the brunt of the responsibility for keeping the Games moving. For keeping things interesting. They're the ones who are expected to go out and hunt, to look for other tributes, because that's what the audience expects them to do. With that expectation gone – or at least lightened a little, from the look of their numbers – the burden is back on other tributes to do something interesting."

"Something interesting," Merrik echoed. "Like you?"

Percival turned, surprised. Why? Everybody in District Three knew how he had won. He had spent the better portion of his Games hiding away in the basement of the opera house, attacking anyone who dared approach and hanging their bodies from the rafters. The Capitol had loved it; it was one of the highlights they showed regularly, along with Miriam's final battle against a pair of older, stronger tributes who thought she had been killed in an earlier fight. Now that he thought about it, Three's Victors did tend to have a flair for the dramatic.

"Like me," Percival agreed. "I did what I had to in order to keep the audience interested. Which is exactly what you'll have to do in order to stand out – especially this year. It's a Quarter Quell, which means the audience will be expecting something more. Something spectacular." He smiled a little.

"So you'll just have to make sure you give it to them."

Lena Khatri, 16
District Six

She'd never imagined she would be the one sitting here.

Lena glanced around the table as she finished her second slice of pie. The dinner had been rather quiet, but maybe that was normal. She wasn't really sure what to expect. She'd never really thought that she would end up here. For years, she hadn't worried about the reaping, because it wasn't a well-kept secret that they were rigged. And she'd never done anything to make them want to send her into the Games. She'd never stepped out of line. She'd done her best to obey, to be a good citizen.

And it hadn't been enough. Nothing ever seemed to be enough. She'd tried her hardest for years to convince Lana to leave her gang, but her words had never been enough. She'd done her best in school and made it through every cut, only to end up here, in the Games. No matter what she did, no matter what she tried to do, it hadn't been good enough to save her from this.

Finally, Duke broke the silence. "Not fun, is it. Knowing you shouldn't be here, knowing the only reason you're here is because a drunk moron chose your name instead of your sister's." He shook his head. "You wish it was her instead, don't you."

Lena could feel her face turning red. "No. No, I wouldn't wish that on my sister. I wouldn't wish this on anyone."

Duke shook his head. "No. Of course not. But if it had to be one of you, if you had to choose who deserved it more, who had less of a future back in District Six—"

"Duke," Nicodemus interrupted.

Duke leaned back in his chair. "It's true. Which of them has more of a chance at an actual life back in District Six? No, you know what? Forget that. Which one of them has more of a chance in the Games? A kid with actual experience on the streets or one who's had her nose in a book her whole life?"

Lena shook her head. "You don't know anything about—"

"Don't have to. It's obvious. I know which one of you I'd bet on any day."

"Then it's a good thing you're not her mentor," Nicodemus offered quietly. "Lena, how about you and I talk alone? I think we're all finished with dinner, anyway?" She followed him to the next car, and he shook his head. "Sorry about Duke. He's always a bit touchy after the reapings. Doesn't like to be reminded of why he got chosen for the Games in the first place."

Lena nodded. Maybe that made sense. And he certainly had every right to be frustrated. But did he really have to take it out on her? Didn't she have a right to be frustrated, too? "So maybe he got reaped on purpose. But at least they meant to pick him. I was just a mistake. He's right about Lana; she would have a better chance. But I—"

"But you didn't even try to let her take your place," Nicodemus pointed out. "Why?"

Why? Didn't he understand? "Because I don't want her in the Games, either."

Nicodemus shrugged. "Maybe not. But it had to be one of you. And you just said she'd have a better chance."

"But that's still only a chance. Not a guarantee. Right now, I have a guarantee that she's alive."

"As long as she behaves herself while you're gone."

Lena's stomach turned at the thought. Or maybe it was the Capitol food. Maybe it was both. Nicodemus wasn't saying anything she hadn't already thought of. That if she didn't come back – if she died – her sister might do something reckless that would put her own life in danger. She'd thought about the possibility, but she'd dismissed it as nervousness on her own part. But hearing someone else say it … that was different. That made it seem a bit more real. "Do you think she will?"

"You tell me. She's your sister."

Lena shook her head. "Doesn't mean I can predict what she's going to do. She's always been…"

"Reckless?"

"Spirited."

Nicodemus smiled a little. "Right. But you still haven't answered my question. It was obvious she wanted to take your place. Why didn't you let her? Pretend that you were Lana and she was Lena? Even if the Peacekeepers tried to prove who was who by taking your blood, you're twins. Same genes. So why not let her?"

"I don't know."

"I think you do."

Lena's face flushed. "I was just being kind! Okay? That's all! She's my sister, and I didn't want to lose her, and if she died instead of me, I … I wouldn't be able to live with myself!"

There was silence for a moment, but then Nicodemus nodded. "There it is."

"What?"

"Compassion." He wheeled himself a little closer. "It's one of our greatest strengths, Lena … but not in the Games. Not in the arena."

"But you—"

"What?"

"You helped my sister, when the Peacekeepers caught her. You're still mentoring after all these years, even after … after what happened during the 41st Games. You tried to save that boy who was about to be executed."

"No."

"No?"

Nicodemus shook his head. "It was never about saving him. There was never any chance of that. All I could do was give him a quicker death. A more merciful death. And that's what I did. Sometimes being kind … sometimes it doesn't mean doing the right thing. Sometimes it just means doing something not quite as bad as what would happen otherwise."

Lena bit her lip. She could see where this was going. "And you're telling me this because … because that's what you think I'll have to do in the Games."

"That's what I know you'll have to do in the Games, if you want to survive. Before the 41st Games, before all this…" He patted the arm of his wheelchair. "Before I was a mentor, I was a tribute. I killed, Lena, just like almost every Victor before me, and every other Victor since. I killed six tributes. Six kids, most of whom never did anything to me. Because that's what I had to do in order to make it back home. There's blood on my hands, Lena, as sure as anyone else's."

Lena shook her head. "Why are you telling me this?"

"I'm being honest. None of us made it out of the Games without blood on our hands, without guilt on our conscience. Eventually you'll have to accept that."

"I already have."

Nicodemus shook his head. "I don't think so. I think Duke was right about you and your sister. About who would have a better chance."

Lena clenched her fists tightly. "Fine! But she's not the one who's here. Maybe you and Duke wish she was. Maybe there's a part of me that wishes she was. But she's not. I'm the tribute you have, and you'll just have to deal with that."

She turned to go, but Nicodemus reached out and took her hand. "Feels better, doesn't it."

Lena turned, surprised. "What?"

"To say it out loud. To admit that maybe – just maybe – there's a part of you that doesn't want to be kind. That doesn't want to be selfless and sacrificial. That there's some part of you that wishes your sister was the one on this train … just like there's some part of me that wishes that I hadn't stepped in nine years ago, that I hadn't been kind, that none of this had ever happened." He shook his head. "But it happened. I did step in. And you are here. And all of us have to deal with that." He nodded towards the dining car. "Ready to go back?"

Lena stared. "You mean all of this was…"

"Duke's idea, but I agreed. We wanted to see what would happen if we pushed you. And you didn't disappoint. You're not your sister, but that might play in your favor yet." He squeezed her hand gently. "I'm sorry. Maybe we shouldn't have, but … it was going to come out sooner or later. Better now, here, where it's just the two of us, than in front of the whole Capitol, where your sister might have heard."

Lena opened her mouth to object, but nothing came out. He was right. She was glad Lana hadn't heard her words. And she was sorry she'd said them.

But that didn't make them any less true.

Barlen Rimmonn, 13
District Nine

He'd never imagined so much food in all his life.

Barlen helped himself to another serving of ham. How much had he eaten already? He wasn't even certain, but his plate looked as if it had been cleared several times. But he was still so hungry, and there was still so much food. Across the table, the others had finished their meals. A girl and two boys, and two adults. Two at a time, they began to peel away from the table. First the younger boy and the woman sitting beside him, then the girl and the man sitting beside her. The boy who was left couldn't help a smile when he saw Barlen had cleaned his plate again. "You must've been hungry."

"Starving," Barlen agreed. He couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten. Maybe this morning? There had definitely been something important this morning. Did it have something to do with why he was on this train? Maybe. Probably. But something kept him from asking. A feeling that was almost … almost dread. As if he was certain, for some reason, that he didn't want to know why he was here.

"You forgot again, didn't you." It wasn't a question, really. The older boy sounded absolutely certain that he'd forgotten something. Probably something important, from the sound of it.

Barlen nodded helplessly. "I think so?"

The older boy leaned back in his chair. "We can't keep doing this. We have to come up with something."

"Keep doing what?"

"Me, explaining everything. Again and again. I won't be able to do that for you once you're in the arena."

Arena. That was a familiar word. "The arena? You mean the Hunger Games?"

"Yes."

That explained why he was on a train. "I hope I don't have to kill you."

The other boy raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"In the Games. I hope I'm not the one who kills you."

The boy shook his head. "Barlen, I'm not going to be in the Games with you."

"You're not a tribute?"

"No."

"So what are you doing here?"

"I'm your mentor. My name's Basil. I won the Games two years ago."

"How?"

Basil sighed. "By being clever. But that's clearly not going to work this time around."

Barlen glanced down at his plate. "I'm sorry."

"I didn't mean—" Basil cut himself off. He had meant it. That much was obvious. "I'm sorry. Things just slip out sometimes. I just meant that you need a different strategy. That's all. And we definitely need to come up with something to help you remember … well, some of the more important things."

"Like what?"

"Like the fact that you're in the Games, for starters," Basil offered. "How many days you've been in the arena. How many tributes are left. Which direction the cornucopia is. Whether you have any allies – and who they are. Things like that."

Allies. "Do you think I'll be able to find allies?" Barlen asked hopefully.

Basil fell silent. "I'm not sure. With thirty-five tributes in the arena, you should be able to find someone. But the real question is probably whether you want to, whether you really think that's a good idea, whether you'll really be able to remember who's your ally and who isn't. Honestly, it might be simpler for you if you don't."

Barlen swallowed hard. Going into the arena was going to be hard enough; he couldn't imagine being in the Games alone. It would be simpler, maybe, but was that worth being alone in an arena full of tributes who were trying to kill him? If he had an ally, maybe they could look out for him, keep him safe.

But that would only last so long. He remembered that much. Only one person survived the Games. Only one person made it out of the arena alive.

But Basil had done it. "Did you have allies?" Barlen asked.

Basil shook his head. "No. No, but not for lack of trying. I spent most of my time during training trying to find someone. Someone who could help me. Someone who would pull my weight along with their own. Someone I could take advantage of. But, strangely enough, no one wanted to help me."

Barlen cocked his head. "That's not strange, is it?"

Basil chuckled a little. "No, it's not … and that's my point. If you find someone who wants to be your ally, you should be pretty suspicious."

Suspicious. He wasn't good at being suspicious. "But what if they just want to help?"

"Then they're either suicidal or too selfless to care that—" He shook his head, cutting himself off. "Look, my point is that even if you do manage to find allies, you can't count on their help forever. You could get separated. They could die. You could decide to part ways peacefully. Whatever the circumstances, you'll eventually need to be able to fend for yourself … which you only stand a chance of doing if you remember where you are and what you're supposed to be doing."

Barlen nodded a little. That made sense. "So what are you suggesting?"

Basil hesitated. "I … I'm not sure. But I might have an idea. Do you have a district token yet?"

Barlen shook his head. "I … I don't think so." Did he? He checked his pockets, but there wasn't anything in there. There was a hole in one. Maybe his district token had fallen out. Or maybe no one had bothered to give him one, knowing that he'd just lose it somewhere. "No. I don't have anything."

Basil produced a pen from his own pocket. "You do now."

"What am I supposed to do with that?"

"Write with it," Basil answered, completely straight-faced.

Barlen couldn't help a giggle. "Yeah, but write on what? We're only allowed to have one district token. I can't take a pen and something else. Can I?"

"I don't think so," Basil agreed. "But you could write on your skin – or maybe there will be something in the arena for you to write on. Maybe I can get the sponsors to send you something."

Barlen perked up at that. "Really?"

"Maybe, if you last long enough."

"Do you think I will?"

"If you'd asked me at the reaping, I would have said no," Basil admitted. "Kid, you didn't even make it to the stage on your own. But now … I think you might surprise a few people."

Barlen smiled. "What changed your mind?"

"You did. This time, when I told you that you were going to be in the Games, you said you hoped you wouldn't have to kill me. Part of you registered that you would have to kill in order to get through the Games. Maybe part of you would even have been willing to kill me, if you'd had to." He smirked. "Not that you would have been able to."

Barlen looked away. That was what had made Basil think that he had a chance? The fact that he'd been willing to consider the idea of killing someone? The fact that, for an instant, he'd been able to stomach the thought … did that really mean that he would actually be able to do it when the time came? That he would actually be able to kill?

And why was Basil acting like that was something to be proud of?

Still, Barlen nodded. He had his mentor on his side, and maybe that was a good thing. He clicked the pen and wrote something on the inside of his palm. Basil leaned across the table, curious. "What'd you write?"

Barlen turned his arm so that Basil would be able to see what he had written. You're in the Hunger Games. "Good," Basil agreed. "Simple. Straightforward. But I wouldn't write on your palm. Too much sweat will wash it away quickly. Try the inside of your arm, instead."

Barlen nodded and carefully rewrote the message inside his arm, just above the wrist. "Better," Basil agreed. "Just make sure you leave room for anything else you might need to write later." He clapped Barlen on the shoulder.

"I expect you to last long enough to add to it."

"Present fears are less than horrible imaginings."